Go Fish
by kaz456
Summary: “Best friends forever” doesn’t apply here. Marco, Jake, a deck of cards. During 54, contemplative.


I was fortunate enough to have a father who, when I was growing up, had an affinity for phrases that hovered over the line between corny and poignant. While I disregarded most of the one-liners that he would try to spout out at seemingly perfect moments, there was one that I could never forget.

He told me it on a day way-back-when, the days before I had any knowledge of morphing cubes and aliens (the time I liked to affectionately call the Age of Innocence).

"Jake," He said, clapping one hand on my shoulder in a manly, father-son-bonding-moment sort of way, "There are a lot of important things to have in this world. But I'll tell you, one of the most important ones is a good friend." After saying such a profound and eloquent statement he paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to be struck by the brilliance of the words. Inevitably, I would nod dutifully and smile falsely and retreat to my room, where I would email Marco and tell him about the latest trite expression my dad had regurgitated.

So the irony, at this moment, countless years later, of Marco being in my house, seated across from me, squinting over the cards in his hand, was not lost on me.

"Do you have any ones?" He finally asked.

I shook my head. "Go fish."

My dad also used to say that one way that you can tell good friends is that even after they've been separated from each other for awhile, they can still easily fall back into their old pattern of friendship. In short, no matter how much the world changes around them, they can recognize that their friendship is constant.

With Marco and me, things have never been so easy.

"Do you have any jacks?" I asked him, after careful scrutiny of the single jack in my hand that was grinning at me mockingly.

Marco's face was suspiciously blank. "Nope. Go fish."

I narrowed my eyes. "Liar."

Marco and I have never had the luxury of being able to fall back into easy molds of friendship. We've lacked very many luxuries in our lives, to be honest, but this was one of the ones that I regretted most.

"No, I'm serious, man. Why would I lie about something like a card game?" Marco's tone was too innocent.

"Because you _always _used to lie about things like card games," I said, a smile creeping onto my face even as I willed it away.

"That was _your _fault for making us play this, Jakey-boy. You made us play a stupid game, so I cannot be held responsible for anything that I did as a result."

I couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment when I realized just how fragile our friendship really was, but I think that it came around the same time that I realized just how valuable it was, as well. But see, both of those realizations came during the war. And the war, if anything, was the greatest obstacle to our friendship.

I sighed, over-exaggeratedly frustrated. "Fine. Do you have any fives?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You don't get to go again!"

"What do you mean, "go again?" You lied! This is just making things even!"

"Nice try, Jake." Marco shook his head smugly. "_My _turn."

But every messed-up thing has at least one point of clarity. There's an eye to every tornado. And even in disastrous events, there's the lonely afterwards, where the quiet reminds you of what it was you needed in the first place.

For Marco and me, this comes in the form of card games.

"Any twos?"

I frowned. He smirked and held out his hand. "Gimme."

I handed it over and mumbled about how he didn't even _want _to play the game in the first place, so there was no reason for him to be _winning._

As I had intended, he heard me. "When are you going to learn that I'm amazing at everything?" He asked.

I snorted. "The day that becomes true. In other words, never."

Not card games, plural, but card game, singular. A specific card game, as a matter of fact: Go Fish. We started playing it when we were young—seven, I think (I'm not sure; the years blend with us, even though we're both relatively young—physically, that is). For some reason, through the carefree elementary days, the tumultuous years of middle school, and the chaotic time in high school, the game stuck.

"Got any eights?" Marco asked, reveling in the fact that he got to go again.

I shook my head. "Fish."

He rolled his eyes and picked up a card. A grin slid onto his face as he realized that it matched a card that he had, and he set both down as another pair. This time I rolled my eyes at his luck.

In the old days, Marco and I played competitively. We had a ratty sheet of paper that we recorded wins and losses on. We played when we were bored, we played when we didn't feel like doing anything else. We played because we could.

And these days?

"Any threes?"

"Get your fishing pole, buddy," Marco said in a sing-song tone.

"You didn't even look at the cards in your hand!" I exclaimed, even as I picked up the last card of the now-depleted deck

He shrugged, grin still on his face. "And your point?"

These days, we played because we needed to. We played for ourselves, for the friendship that we were still barely hanging on to. We played now to remember. A pair of queens for Rachel (she might as well have been royalty). A lone ace for Cassie. The lopsided pile, nearly falling apart—Tobias. The card knocked to the floor, away from the rest—Ax.

And Marco and I?

"Any sevens?" Separated by a coffee table, a nonexistent card deck, and two lifetimes—Marco grinned. He knew the answer, I could tell. He had seen the seven in my hand. Marco had this game in the bag. All he needed was one more pair to win, and seven was his lucky number.

Marco and I? Despite all the accusing, we both knew that neither of us had ever lied when we played this. We needed a little bit of honesty, somewhere. We never lied, but I thought that this time, Marco might not mind. Marco might get it, might realize what I was trying to say, which was that I wasn't going to give it up— the card, but more importantly, our friendship.

Marco got it, I knew. I could tell by his laughter, the sound of which matched the slow smile that had spread across my face.

Marco and I? Maybe we weren't so far from each other after all.

"Go fish."


End file.
